Only Love
by wreckofherheart
Summary: Some of their most intimate moments, which linger over the telephone. [Carol/Therese]
**author's note** : Based on the prompt _things you said on the phone at 4 am_ which turned into something a little bit more.

Some of their most intimate moments, which linger over the telephone.

* * *

 **I.**

'I was horrible––before. Will you forgive me?'

'Yes… I mean… It's not––'

'Then will you–– _would you_ ––let me come see you… tomorrow evening?'

'Yes… _Yes_.'

Her heart tips over.

Something breaks.

'I want to–– _know_. I think. I mean, to ask you… things. But I'm not sure you want that.'

Almost. Touching her is an almost. She can _almost_ touch her. She can _almost_ feel her breath on her skin. She can _almost_ picture her face, her deep, forgiving eyes, high cheek bones. Almost. She can _almost_ see the agony splashed across Carol's once perfect expression. She can _almost_ picture how very definite and tragic all of this––every bit of this––has become.

Therese wants to cry.

Therese doesn't want to cry.

Therese doesn't really know what she wants. So, she focusses on Carol. The slightest response. Be it a murmur, a whisper, any form of noise. She leans into the phone, squeezes it tightly, and waits. Probably too patiently.

Maybe she's too young to know better, but she waits, and she thinks she can wait over a thousand years. For an eternity. Anything for this woman.

But she is hurt.

She is hurting. She oozes blood. Her skin is bruised. Her heart has been _cut_.

'Ask me. Things. Please.'

Therese closes her eyes.

Her throat narrows, and she can feel the same urge as before. This uncontrollable, erratic, horrible sensation building from within her chest. Rupturing out between her lips––a wail, desperate to be released. A scream.

God, she holds her _breath_ for this woman. She _dies_ for her.

The silence is pierced by voices. Giddy, childish antics. The giggles of children. The youth which Therese has been torn from. She opens her eyes, watches as they scatter up the staircase, and they're loud, annoying, and they've _ruined_ it all.

She exhales, and tries to find her balance. She thinks about the youth, who've ran off without her, smiling, red-faced and silly. And they are blissfully unaware of the pains of love, stupid and irritating and so wonderful. How she envies them in that moment. How she even wishes to be them––if only to be set free from this moment.

It is early. So early, and yet so late in the day.

By the time she's thrown back into reality, Carol is gone. The phone hangs dead, and the building turns dark.

Everything sort of collides into one, and Therese disappears into a shadow of grief.

* * *

 **II.**

And each word is a pierce to Therese's body. The letter haunts her mind, leaves her frazzled and desperate. Carol whispered poetry to her, and she is _suffering_. She wants annihilating, she wants _freedom_ , she wants death's angels to carry her away because, God forbid, she would be at peace then.

She could cry. She could weep.

She could pour tears, create a river of her misery.

She could run away. She could forget.

Or, she could be stupid. She could be innocent. She could be Therese who's young, and silly, and fragile, and wonderful and so, so, so in love, all she can do is pick up the phone. Drop it. _No… no you cannot ring her_.

Then pick it up again.

Stop.

She could vanish. Forget.

 _Oh, God… let me forget_.

Therese stares at the dial. She stares, and stares, and thinks _god, god, god help me._ If she had any ounce of sanity left, she wouldn't do this. She would let it all go, let _her_ go. This simply isn't. This simply _wasn't_. Because those kisses, those delicate confessions, when Carol held her, when Carol _loved_ her, it was all temporary.

Nothing lasts.

But, still, Therese can still feel the cool sheets. The warmth of Carol's naked body, pressed so softly, so tenderly against her breasts. Can still shiver at the slightest touch of Carol's wandering fingertips, how her lips played her like a violin, strumming the strings with such elegance and passion; how she loved her. Oh, how she _loved_ her.

She can still breathe her in.

Can still suffocate in her love; can still feel how her own hands clutched onto Carol so tightly. So fiercely. As if letting go might possibly cause the very destruction of the earth. And it may as well have turned out that way. If Therese let go, if Therese let Carol walk out of her life––then the world must surely have ended.

There isn't anything _left_. Not without her.

Therese cannot be kissed, cannot be plagued, cannot be wanted, _needed_ , become _somebody's_ , and then thrown aside.

She cannot… she _won't_ … _she can't_ _think_.

Therese dials Carol's number; an infection in her memory. And it rings.

It rings.

Rings.

Rings.

It rings.

Then––

Therese holds her breath.

Her lungs ache.

Her eyes swim. She suddenly feels little in this massive, horrifying reality.

'Hello?' One pause. 'Carol?'

Even saying her name slices apart whatever is left of her.

The silence is almost like an answer.

But it is still silence.

Still a quiet.

And nothing has sounded louder.

Therese holds the receiver close, cradles it near: it is a precious thing.

 _Talk. Talk to me_.

She wants her voice, her lightness; she wants her. She wants her. She wants her. It could not be any simpler. All Therese wants is her, she is blinded by her; crazed. Completely and utterly drowning in everything Carol is, and she waits, _stupidly_ , for a response. Of any kind. She waits, and she waits, and she waits and––

––death would surely be a mercy.

Carol hangs up.

Therese falls in defeat.

She tries to breathe, but nothing will let her. Oxygen is deprived from her lungs, and she knows her knees will give in beneath her.

She holds herself up against the wall. Closes her eyes.

The letter strokes and pulls and _tears_.

'I miss you.' _I love you_. 'I miss you.'

* * *

 **III.**

Maybe she's drunk. Drunk and young and ridiculous. But she can imagine herself grabbing the phone, trying again. Going in for another. Drinking alcohol, intoxicating herself with all silly liquids and maddening thoughts; nothing can possibly equal to the intoxicating, the maddening, the sweet bliss Carol scattered across her body.

She wants Carol to kiss her.

That's what she wants.

For Carol to cradle her close, hands, arms, around her waist. And for Carol to kiss her cheek, her nose, her eyes, and then for Carol to kiss her lips. Chapped and cold and dented from her lover's affections. And all Therese wants is to kiss her back. To hold her face between her shaking palms, and kiss her. And kiss her. And kiss her until her mind explodes, and her sight is foggy, and she can no longer breathe, walk, think, speak.

She wants to lie on her chest, fall into a deep slumber, and she wants to wake up, picture her face, the sound of her laughter, rosy cheeks, big smile; hear her wisdom and gentle words, and drown. Therese wants Carol to kiss her, to laugh with her; Therese wants Carol to be happy with her, and it's all she can think about.

The bottle touches her lips.

Now, the alcohol tastes like vomit, and she reaches for the phone.

She could call.

Could ask.

 _Please… kiss me. One last time._

 _Kiss me goodbye._

It is too early, and it is too late.

The day is long and harsh and lonely and bleak.

Therese dials Carol's number, and then immediately hangs up the phone. She drops it, and it slams onto the table, scarring the wood.

* * *

 **IIII.**

Carol calls.

It is four o'clock in the morning. Therese isn't available, but she answers the phone anyway.

Stupid.

And they don't say a word.

They stand together, wounded little girls, and listen to their silence. And their silence is filled with whispers, of their love, of their desire and _craving_ to be held by each other. They listen to the silence, to the sound of each other breathing, and then she can feel her crying. Not much. Not even a weep. But she can feel the shy tears trickling down her cheeks.

That's enough.

Enough for Therese to fall into the wall, for her legs to give in, for her heart to give.

They cry, in silence, together.

She can hear her own pleas, her own desperate, lonely pleas. Tearstained, Therese tries to find her voice, but nothing happens.

Therese imagines asking.

Kiss me?

One of them disconnects. They are erased from one another; ripped apart.

* * *

 **V.**

'Do you hate me, Therese?'

'No. How could I hate you?'

'I suppose you could. Didn't you? For a while?'

Carol has an apartment.

Madison Avenue.

Her baby has been stolen from her warmth.

Therese doesn't care.

(… but Therese _does_ care. It's all she cares about. Her insides rot, and turn cold; sympathy and pity and sadness for Carol; hatred and anger for the man she doesn't know …)

She's lighting another cigarette.

Carol is beautiful. Breathtaking. Carved in bright gold: an angel.

Divine.

Carol looks at Therese.

'I love you.'

* * *

 **VI.**

After.

After Therese comes to her, after she's entered the dream, after she's walked over to where Carol seats and holds her hand; it all becomes an _after_.

Because _after_ , she's kissed. One kiss. Ghostly and real and _familiar_.

Then she is told to wait.

To wait.

 _Wait for me._

After. After she waits. She waits. She'll wait an eternity, always, for Carol Aird.

The phone rings.

A chilling, impatient chime in her ears.

Therese grabs for it greedily, and she's dizzy; she has to focus on her feet, to hold herself. She has to _stop_. To hear her, to––

'I want you to live with me. Us. Together.'

She kisses her. She may not be able to, but Therese knows she is kissed in that second. Carol's voice is quiet, tender, and her voice is a hesitant kiss.

'I understand if you require time for this to sink in. I…' Carol braces herself, '… I also understand if you refuse my request. It is only that, after all. A simple request.'

After. After it all, after everything, it _is_ simple.

Too simple.

Therese smiles, and, this time, she's able to cry.

It is all the answer Carol needs.


End file.
